


For Worse or for Better

by Simara



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Banter, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scriddler, Some Fluff, Terminal Illnesses, almost domestic at times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6399181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simara/pseuds/Simara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragments of Edward Nygma’s and Jonathan Crane’s relationship throughout the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Worse or for Better

**For Worse or for Better**

 

 _And I still don't ask you, what is the matter?_  
_Is this a matter of worse or of better?_  
_You take the heart failure_  
_I'll take the cancer_  
_I've long stopped wondering why you don't answer._

_“The Bed Song” – Amanda Palmer_

 

Exhibit A

“Bat kicked your ass, old man?”

“Watch your tongue, boy”, Jonathan Crane retorted, merely glancing at the one who had hollered the words towards him. He was currently being led past the dining room and didn’t know the offender nor did he wish to make his acquaintance. Being just taken back to Arkham, he had an all together different set of matters on his mind, the strip-search and medical evaluation that was undoubtedly going to happen as soon as they got him to the medical facility being one of the most prominent ones. He had a couple of syringes still hidden in his costume and depending on which Doctor was currently on duty, he might be able to slip one or two of them into the prison uniform they would hand him afterwards. Thus musing, the youth and his uncivil words were soon forgotten.

Later that day, after he had indeed managed to safe one of the syringes from the examiner’s prying hands, Jonathan was led to his cell- Well, at least he thought it would be his regular cell but apparently there had been some changes while he’d been gone: The cell he was told to wait before had a double bunk.

“There must have been a mistake”, Jonathan said pointedly. The guard shrugged.

“Budget cuts, Prof. Ya know how it is.” With that, Jonathan was shoved inside and the door was closed. Frowning, Jonathan Crane turned to face his cell-mate. It was a young man, none of the Rogues he usually associated with. At his sight, the boy basically jumped from the bottom bunk he had occupied. His overall posture and tone had an arrogant air to them, an air that even increased as he spoke up:

“We meet again, then.” Jonathan narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“I don’t know you.” The boy raised his head defiantly.

“You most certainly do! I’ve been making headlines for weeks!” Jonathan waved a dismissive hand.

“I don’t read tabloids.” The boy gaped at him for a moment before his shoulders sank almost unnoticeably- but Jonathan Crane always noticed- as he said:

“I called out to you when they led you past the lunch room this morning?”

“Oh yes.” Jonathan actually looked at him this time, taking in the long legs and forced confidents. “You’re that annoying kid.”

“Don’t call me that!” The newbie snapped.

“What am I going to call you then, boy?”

“I’m Edward Nygma. The Riddler?” Jonathan noticed an edge of unease behind the arrogant tone. This was starting to become interesting.

“Never heard of you.” The lie was rewarded with a rather complex swirl of emotions- Jonathan would certainly remember to push and pull some more at those half-hidden insecurities- but before the boy could vocalise any of them, Jonathan spoke up again: “Doesn’t matter who you are, anyway. They might know you and your petty crimes outside of Arkham but in here, you’re still a nobody. Now get your stuff out of my bunk.”

“What makes you think I’m going to-“, within seconds, Jonathan had closed the distance between them, invading Edward’s personal space.

“I’m the Scarecrow. I’m the Master of Fear, the Lord of Despair. I’ve killed men with mere words and this little talk we just had taught me enough about you and your fragile ego to make your remaining excuse of a live a living hell.” He paused for just a moment to savour the look on Edward’s face. Then he added: “Besides, I’m apparently an old man and my knees would be killing me if I had to climb that ladder twice a day.”

 

Exhibit B

It was an unusually warm spring day and it was almost peaceful at Arkham Asylum, admittedly foremost because only a handful of its more notorious inmates were currently staying there. In one of the many two-bunk cells of the men’s wing, Edward was resting his head on Jonathan Crane’s bony chest. It wasn’t an all too comfortable position, but he couldn’t bring himself to move just yet.

After a while, however, he noticed something off.

“Your heart is skipping beats.”

“I’m aware.” Edward furrowed his brow.

“Why?”

“Maybe you’re crushing me.” With more strength than reasonable for someone that skinny, Jonathan shoved Edward off his body. 

“Hey!” Edward almost fell of the bunk. He sat up and glared at Jonathan. “Is that why they make you take all those meds now? You’ve got some kind of cardiac arrhythmia?” The words left a foul taste on his tongue even though he knew that they made the condition sound worse than it probably was. His own heart missed a beat, however, as Jonathan averted his gaze.  There were times where Ed regretted solving the riddle. This was one of them. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”, he asked. Jonathan finally met his eye.

“Don’t concern yourself with it. My heart has been giving me trouble for quite some years now and it’s never been anything I couldn’t handle.” With that, Edward was politely, but sternly, asked to return to his own bunk. He lay awake, that night, pondering the why and the how. It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise to him, he chided himself. Jonathan was underweight more often than not and regular exposure to fear toxin couldn’t be too healthy either. Yet even though he willed himself to store that newly gathered information away and move on, a part of him realised that he did not want Jonathan Crane to die and that finding made him feel a pang of vulnerability. _That's it, then_ , he thought as he closed his eyes. _I've become attached._  

The next morning at breakfast, Edward couldn’t help but stare at the handful of pills Jonathan was given. Knowing about their nature made it hard to continue ignoring them, after all.

“How do you intend to get all of those when you’re out of Arkham?” Edward asked with real curiosity. Jonathan shrugged.

“I don’t.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Edward, you’re acting awfully concerned.”

“You basically told me that you could drop dead any minute how am I not supposed to be concerned?” He had raised his voice while talking, gaining an almost hysteric edge and alarming not only some of the other inmates but also the guards.

“If it’s any condolence to you”, Jonathan said, patting Edward’s hand. “I ‘intend’ to make _you_ go and get them for me once I forged some prescriptions.”

"If you start to get sassy on me I won't guarantee that it'll be heart failure that kills you", Edward snapped. A smile tugged at Jonathans lips and if they hadn't been sourounded by criminals and worse yet, orderlies, he would have kissed Edward then and there. Be it as it was, however, he merely leaned closer and whispered into Edward's ear:

"You've grown too accustomed to me to kill me, my dear. Where would you find someone else to put up with you?" Edward knew that it was unorthodox to hit old people with heart conditions but there was only so much he could take and the only other option would have been to start crying and that's just not fitting for a criminal mastermind, isnt it?

 

Exhibit C

"Wait! Wait." Edward gasped between kisses. "Not here. You've got a bedroom, don't you?" Jonathan looked at him in amusement.

"I most certainly do but what's wrong with the couch?" 

"It's awfully small, for starters, and I would kill to get some rest tonight, for once. What use is breaking out of Arkham when we don't get to sleep in an actual bed?" 

"Liar." Edward flinched ever so slightly at that and Jonathan almost felt sorry for going there. Almost. They did move to the bedroom shortly afterwards and what followed made Jonathan stop wondering about Edward's sudden preference.

The sun hadn't yet come up when Jonathan was awoken by a rather annoying noise. As soon as he realized that one component of the composure of sounds had been someone hollering “GCPD”, he automatically reached for his clothes and started to get dressed, nudging Edward in the progress.

“Get up. We’ve got to move.” The only answer was half-audible mumbling, quickly followed by a pained sound. Jonathan nudged him again, somewhat more forceful. “If you don’t get up this very minute I’m going to leave you here.” If the sounds outside where anything to go by, there would soon be a whole police department inside his hide-out.

“Can’t.” Edward winced in response. “My back hurts.” With a roll of his eyes, Jonathan pulled the bedcovers away. At least he had gotten an explanation for yesterday's curious disregard for his couch. If Edward had been less vain and told him in the first place, he wouldn't have been above giving some helpful advise but now he was out of patience.

“You’ll get used to it. Now get out of my bed.”

“Huh? Why would I get used to this? I certainly don’t intend do keep on feeling like shit.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate because that’s exactly what the human body does as it ages. Especially if you’ve spent the better half of your life falling off buildings.” Edward blinked rapidly.

“Oh no, this is going to pass! I’m not _old_.” Jonathan chuckled.

“Edward. I was as old as you are now when we first met.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I’ve aged way better than you, then.” Jonathan’s eyes narrowed.

“If you don’t get out of my bed this very instance the police is the least thing you’ve got to worry about.”

It turned out that, on the contrary, the police _would_ be their main concern since several armed officers burst into the bedroom that very moment.

 

Exhibit D

They had been bantering in the kitchen, like some old, married couple, when Edward had grasped the counter and looked at him with empty eyes before loosing consciousness altogether. Jonathan managed to catch him and lower him onto the floor and within seconds, Edward came back to, disorientated.

“What…?” Jonathan forced a smile.

“You passed out. Right into my arms. You’re pretty heavy.”

“And you’re clinically underweight which means your muscle mass is decreased.”  Ignoring the jab, Jonathan helped Edward to get back up again, steadying him as much as he was able to. 

“I’ve also got a weak heart and am not supposed to do any heavy lifting. Try to faint next to the couch next time, will you?” It was supposed to be a joke, a way back into the light-hearted mood they had shared before Edward had blacked out for no conceivable reason, but the sudden flash of fear on Edwards face was enough to confirm that the creeping suspicion Jonathan had fostered for weeks now was actually true. There was nothing else to do then but to ask, matter-of-factly: “It’s back, isn’t it? The cancer?” Edward averted his gaze.

“I come to the rich, I come to the poor, no matter your age I’ll knock on your door. What am I?” Jonathan Crane wasn’t the hugging type. He closed his arms around Edward's shivering frame none the less.

“Death”, he said, answering the riddle. “That was an easy one. You’re losing your touch.” The noise that escaped Edward's throat was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Might be the egg-sized tumour in my brain.” He responded, deadpanned. Jonathan hugged him closer.

“That’s no excuse for slacking.” Edward was clinging to him now, nails dug into Jonathans clothes.

"I don't want to die", he whispered. It was a raw, desperate confession and Jonathan had no condolences to offer.

"I know." He said plainly, stroking Edward's back. "I know." It was the first time he saw Edward cry, really cry, in all those years. 

"Will you promise me something?" Edward asked after the tears had long faded. His voice was still shaking, though. "One last, selfish request?"

"How could I deny it?" Edward smiled now, almost mischievously, doing what he always did: Burying himself under a mask when the truth was too much to bear.

"Don't you die before me. " A chuckle escaped Jonathan's throat. He shook his head in disbelieve and took Edward's hand into his own.

"I'll try my best."

 

Exhibit E

He didn’t attend the funeral. Partly because he did not want to risk being recognized, partly because he was a coward and also partly because he had a medical appointment that morning and Jonathan would have been angry with him for skipping it. He did visit the grave, however, regularly even. It was a nice spot and the name wasn’t too visible if you didn’t knew it was there. A well-meant gesture, surely, but an unnecessary one since no one seemed to have made much notice of the Scarecrow’s death. Other, younger criminals had started to take the place once held by the so called Rogues Gallery and the citizens of Gotham had other things on their mind than vandalizing the grave of a threat long past his prime. The other Rogues, those that were still alive, that is, had not forgotten about old Jonathan Crane though. Whenever Edward came to tend to the grave, some kind of token had been placed by the headstone.

It was only once, however, that someone joined him at the grave.

“You come here often.” Edward flinched as he heard the familiar voice of a certain bat-themed vigilante.

“You’re still sneaky for an old bastard, you know that?” He hadn’t brought a weapon- hell, he wasn’t feeling particularly well to begin with and would probably not be able to fight even if he _had_ brought a weapon- so all he could do was glance at the man with a defiant glare. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been laying low for quite some time now, Nygma.”

“I’ve been kinda busy.” _Busy dying of cancer and burying people I’ve known half my live_ , he added mentally, but stopped himself from actually voicing the thought. “So what?”

“I could use your help on a case, if you’re interested. You might have heard about it.” Edward shifted under the vigilante's stare.

“You mean those copycat morons, don’t you? The ones who theme their murders after… well, us?” The Batman nodded. He was getting old as well, Edward noticed. The skin about the mouth was wrinkled and the shoulders slouched ever so slightly. Sometimes, there was a young Batman these days. Edward had seen that boy himself. Soon, the cowl would be passed on for good and who ever this old man behind the mask might be (Ed had his suspicions), he would no longer climb the roofs of Gotham City.

“Exactly. They-“, Edward interrupted him.

“I don’t care. I’ve got other things on my mind and I don’t intend to get shot now, of all times. That would be just embarrassing, wouldn’t it? I'm a civilian, after all.” The Bat sighted. For a fleeing moment, Ed thought that maybe the man didn’t need his help at all and was only checking in on him but he shooed that suspicion away as quickly as it came.

“How long?” The question came unexpected. No not really, it never came unexpected since it was always on Edwards mind. He flashed the Batman a smile- Edward could still be charming if he wanted to, even now with thinning hair and sunken eyes- and answered truthfully:

“Eight months, if I’m a good boy and take my meds and let them pump me full of chemicals now and then. But I wouldn’t give too much about that estimation. The same doctors said that Jonathan’s heart wouldn’t give out for another year and here we are.”

“Here we are.” Batman echoed. They stood in silence.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write this- on and off again- for almost a month now. I hope the result is pleasing.


End file.
